Poetry
It Rains Down
And it rains down
Freezing hot drip drops
The haze
The mist
The moss steams on the softened bark
It rains thick
And dampens every face
Like a mist
Like a haze
And for endless days
Endless hours
Endless showers
And I lay my frightened heart
On Smurf-blue Gore-Tex on the ground
The heavy red dirt
Cradles around
My back and hair
All full of soggy paper leaves
And it heaves
A sigh of peace and relieves
My fears die in the showers
I could lie here for hours
It rains down.
I lay down
And feel each droplet
On my blistering cold cheeks
Pinched pink
And think of how much rain there is
To rain down.
The Middle of the Afternoon
When I don’t know what to do
I lie in bed
When I find a loose end
And its all done and dusted
I’ve said what is to be said
Done what needed to be done
Or not
And the clouds cast a grey light
Over the sun
Shadow over the windows
And it’s just a little bit
Dimmer
No warm glimmer
A great sweeping hand scoops me up
And slides me like a coin into a purse
A coffin into a hearse
I’m juise poured into a plastic cup
I curl up under the covers
Like eggs below their mothers
All snug
As a bug
A snail
A worm
All warm and hug
Myself as I try to find nothing to do in my brain
To hold a refrain on the racing thoughts
And pause and sleep
And shut off life
For a moment
Free from strife
No knife
Necessary
—just a nap and hopes
That carry like streams
Roll stones
I’ll be okay soon
And rest these lonely bones
In bed in the middle of the afternoon.
Opal
Lapis set in gold
In the window of the soul
The king’s jewels
Carefully cradle and hold it for you
Until you’re ready to don
Your crown with its ruby red swirls
And Byzantine pearls
The lighthouse in the storm
Is the spark
In the dark
The song in the dawn
The quiet in the swarm
So you glow like a fragment of radium.
I’m not afraid, I am
In awe
Of the coppery ore
That dashes obsidian on the cliffs by the shore
And your silver horses on the sea
Make sapphire jealous,
Make no gift more precious
Than the orbs in my sky
Your face is the night
And your eyes are the stars—
The love struck of Venus
The war red of Mars
My astronaut life in the hope of your heart—
And won’t you understand
The most reverent gem
Is to take your hand,
To forget all of them…
All I see is you.
A crown and a king and the Opal in the ring.
Cherry Blossoms
I’ll never get sick of the cliché
That they induce when they bloom—
Whether breathing in Japan
Or closed-eyes existing under the moon—
In the blush cotton crimson noticeable blue sky
Spring brings,
The confetti of sorbet, the
Subtle centre-stage silk song that soon lets fly
So softly; the rain that brings joy
A gift of water to a salt scorched desert skin
To poke and awake the hidden, patient seed within.
That is the blossom shower of the cherry tree.
It is gentle affection free from passion or quip. Glee.
A permission slip, signed in pink ink, to smile
For the first time in a while.
Petal plethora, to care, and to not care.
Nobody minds a blossom in their hair.
Vows
My heart is a house—
Please make it your home.
When I hear your voice
I know I am not alone.
Your eyes are the key
To the door to my soul;
Your arms are the ballast
That keep my world whole.
I cannot possess you,
Nor ever shall I try—
But instead, be beside you
As together, free, we fly.
Your smile is a candle,
An unshakeable flame;
For there was only darkness
Until to me you came.
Two hearts make a whole,
And two’s better than one;
What we tie together
Shall never be undone.
Forever and always
I’ll be honest and true;
In sickness and health,
I will always love you.
Grasmere
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er dale and hills;
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils.
​
Clouds aren’t lonely,
There’s never one only
On its own,
There’s either none
Or the sky’s a grey shroud
Over the floral crowd
Over the sorrel green
Turned to mush
And I can’t push
Myself to go for a walk in that. Neither can the tourists, though.
So, for winter walks, I go.
The fells of the Lakes
Are bright and awake
When the sun shines
Leaves the colour of limes,
And like pilgrims
To shrines
Visitors form lines
Outside the old school-house-turned-gingerbread-shop
For the opportunity
To eat some crumbly
So-fresh-the-whole-village-can-smell-it-bake
Ginger cake
With serenity their backdrop.
There are more tourists than daffs.
More crying kids than laughs.
More Wordsworth memorabilia
Than any real sylvaphillia.
Peter Rabbit. Beatrix Potter.
Weather’s getting hotter
Here comes the hoard
Of God-awful intruders
To trample the stones
In their droves
Like drones
Ignoring the smell of the earth
And the bark and the fell
For the duty it is
To, with a smug face,
Chime in
Name-drop
After they popped
Into the souvenir shop
That they’ve seen Wordsworth’s
Final resting place.